


The Graveyard

by texting_fangirl



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, Comfort by the Reader, F/M, M/M, Other, Reader-Insert, but the first one, canonverse i guess?, cherry blossom season, could be AU too, dead farlan, dead isabel, dead petra - Freeform, dead squad levi, genderless reader, graveyard, grieving Levi, i don't know what this is i just found it on my phone and uploaded, spoilers i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-27 00:30:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13869249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/texting_fangirl/pseuds/texting_fangirl
Summary: It's been some time since their funeral, but as spring rolls around Levi is drawn back to their eternal resting places.Hidden in the overgrown part of the cemetary, time stretches into eternity, and it's a bit too cold to sit outside for so long but he doesn't really care, it's comforting here and he's alone, so why should he move...?





	The Graveyard

It's a bit cold, with the wind blowing and the sun not yet at full capacity.

The ground beneath him isn't icy anymore, the grass dry and the bark of the tree in his back almost warm.  
Soft pink patels are being whisked around him in every direction, following whatever path the constant breeze dictates for them.  
He can see where the hill slopes down gently, towards the new part of the cemetary, but that's a whole different world he's not attached to right now. The sun is hidden behind a thin, pearl grey sheet of clouds, and somewhere in the trees above him are windchimes softly playing.

He can't move, he doesn't want to, there is no need to.

Every thought that could disturb the peace of his mind can't reach him.

He closes his eyes and completely relaxes.

 

His ears pick up the sound of feet on grass, soft and quiet, meant to not disturb him, and he manages to not tense up.  
Somewhere in his mind he knows it can only be one person, but still he hopes it's you.  
Then the person sits down next to him, close but not touching him, exactly how he told you how he likes it on the first day when you went in for a hug and he declined it, and the way you strictly stick to his preferences is almost painful.

Nobody's touching him, never, even when the opportunity is there nobody does. Never.  
Not even you, after all those months getting to know him through and through, after growing so close.

With a sigh there's another movement, legs being stretched out, and finally he can pry his eyes open to look. And sure enough, there you are, sitting besides him, a small smile on your lips as you see he's fully awake and acknowledging your presence.

He wants to ask what you think you're doing here, who gave you the right to be here and be so friendly, your smile and sheer presence so comforting, but nothing gets past his lips and he's grateful for that. It's too easy to ruin the mood and his tongue is too fast in doing so, often.  
But you don't, you don't ruin the mood with words or gestures, you just sit there next to him on your jacket with your hands kept between your legs as to not accidentally touch him.  
You're not even looking at him, your eyes are lost in the sea of pastel pink and white overhead, listening to the windchimes in the breeze, utterly at rest.  
He's scared but at the same time he is so glad you're here, so so thankful for your company.  
How did he get here? Why is he here?  
...it doesn't matter.  
His mind is moving on its own pace now.

He gently lifts himself with his hands, feels the curious look on your eyes, the silent question on your face, and his own grows uncomfortably warm while he hopes you're not thinking of this as weird or stupid or anything.  
And then his head comes to rest between your lap and your stomach, and it's warm and soft and so perfect that he closes his eyes and just forgets.  
He feels how you relax after a while, is highly aware how your hands gently come to rest on his shoulder and next to his head.  
He breathes out and after another moment of wary tensing you relax again, absently begin running your fingers through his hair.

The wind blows on, rustles the leaves and branches above and lulls him in, but he keeps slits of his eyes open, staring at nothing.

A minute could have passed, or an hour, but it doesn’t matter. Not here, with you, lost from sight between the dark bark, the pastel pink overheard and the deep green below.

He feels your legs shifting and almost unwillingly lifts his head.

You mumble an apology before getting up, picking up your jacket and then extending a hand to him.  
He blinks at it for some moments before taking it, wrapping his fingers around your wrist as you do the same and with a strong pull you lift him up.  
He brushes away grass and other small leaves and looks around like he's somewhere else.

Then his view falls on you, waiting with your jacket that's a little too big already on, waiting for him.  
He buries his hands in the pockets of his dark green jacket and walks along your side as you lead him back out from the wild, slightly overgrown part of the graveyard back to the well-tended one, the one where flowers are placed down and people cry at the tombstones of loved ones.

He sees the colours of the ones too familiar, and suddenly there's a hand slipping into his.  
He looks over but you're not looking at him. Instead you're frowning, looking ahead, and when he turns his eyes back to the ground there's almost a smile on his face.  
He breathes in deeply and lightly squeezes your hand as you pass the rows where there are names he knows too well are engraved in stone, some fresher than others.

The front comes into sight, the large iron gate, and he looks back one more time.

His breath hitches in his throat as he can make out six people standing where he sat with you.  
Two short figures are waving, one shy, the other more energetically.

His eyes are glued to their silhouettes and he only looks away when he stumbles because he's still moving forward.

When he looks back they're gone he he's not sure they were ever there.

But your hand is still in his, cold from sitting on the ground for so long and yet warmer than any of the words of condolences people told him.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a long time ago and only just now found it on my phone;  
> It's sad, and empty, and I'm sorry for Levi.  
> Could be canon-verse or not, but who cares.


End file.
